Sira, page 38
I looked at him for the last time in the semidarkness; he hadn’t turned on the light. My Ignacio, who’d nearly become my lifelong companion and the father of my children. The man I’d caused to suffer so much.
I started off down the stairs.
“Take care, Sira,” I heard him say behind me.
It may have sounded like just a polite goodbye, but I was aware that his warning was sincere. Despite his coldness and cutting detachment, Ignacio’s feelings remained unwavering. Though I didn’t love him like he still loved me, I had to contain my longing to go back, hug him, and beg him not to forget me. He was the only person who connected me to the girl I’d once been, the girl I’d lost along the way.
For Ramiro, I was a fancy that had quickly gone out of date; for Marcus, I’d been the end of a journey; for Nick Soutter, I was a counterpoint, perhaps; while for Diego Tovar I might have seemed a bright extravagance in a gray world. But among all these men who’d at some time felt something for me, the one closing his door now was, without a shadow of a doubt, the one who’d loved me most. And the one who still did love me, despite how badly I’d repaid that love.
I resisted the urge to return to his side, however. If I’d asked him to hold me in his arms to give me courage, his reply would’ve been an emphatic no.
55
“It looks like the nanny has a suitor.”
I knew this all too well. Even so, when my father confirmed it to me the next day over the telephone, I felt as if I’d been punched in the stomach.
“Have you seen him?”
“No, but Miguela suspected something, says she’s in and out more often now, more dressed up, more cheerful. And today she asked for the afternoon off.”
I held my breath.
“To go to a swimming pool, it seems,” Gonzalo went on. “The Stella Club. It’s just opened on Calle Arturo Soria. He must be a boy with a good job or of some means because, from what I hear, it’s a stylish, modern place. Maybe he’s the son of a local family, a kid who wants to practice his English or—”
“It’s all right,” I said, hiding my unease. “It’s all right, give her permission. In fact, make it the whole day, not just the afternoon. Víctor can stay at home with you and Miguela today.”
“Righto, whatever you say.”
“Tell Philippa that it’s an order, that I said to take the whole day off to relax. But please, don’t mention the . . .” I stopped before saying the word that was on the tip of my tongue. Suitor. “Behave as if you don’t suspect anything.”
I hung up the receiver on the dirty wall at the back of Casa Prudencio, in that spot squeezed in between crates of soda bottles and demijohns of Valdepeñas wine. I was relieved that Ramiro wouldn’t be going near Víctor today, but his courting of innocent Philippa stung like vinegar in an open wound. For her sake, because of the hurt that her fraudulent admirer could cause. And even more so because the girl was my employee, my responsibility, a foreigner in my care. But I needed her to keep Ramiro distracted, to give me time.
My next call prompted another breath of relief.
“Señor Tovar left for Santiago de Compostela in an official car early this morning.”
The Diplomatic Information Office confirmed to me that Diego was already on his way to rejoin the tour on its brief visit to Galicia. I would work out how to justify my absence later, after he learned of it. For the time being, and to shore up my peace of mind, I considered his absence another obstacle checked off my list.
I had to step aside to let a half-deaf local call a relative, and then again so the owner of the bar himself could track down an order of God knows what. Once I had my place back at the grimy wall, I called the Palace Hotel.
“Good morning, Alberto, it’s Livia Nash, from the BBC in London. I’m calling from Seville. I trust you remember me.”
“I’m offended, dear. How could I forget you?”
His gallantry was just good manners. At that early hour and in his situation, the shipowner must have had little desire to flirt.
“I realized you were no longer in Señora Perón’s entourage and was simply wondering whether everything is all right and if—”
“No problems, my darling, everything’s fabulous.” He spoke with too much force, aware, perhaps, that although I was a woman, and an attractive one, I still worked for the press. “I just had to return to Madrid unexpectedly to attend to a business matter,” he added. “Nothing important.”
“I trust we’ll see each other again, in that case. Before the Rainbow Tour continues around Europe, I’d like to hear your final thoughts on Señora Perón’s stay in Spain. You know, for my report.”
“Of course, Livia. I’ll join you as soon as possible. I don’t think I’ll make the Galicia visit, but I’ll be in Barcelona . . .” I thought he sounded doubtful. “In Barcelona, soon, without fail.”
I waited a couple of seconds, as if considering his tone.
“Forgive me if I seem nosy, Alberto, it could just be these dreadful Spanish telephone lines, but your voice sounds a little—”
“It’s probably the heat, it’s not good for my stress levels,” he cut in before I could finish. “In Argentina it’s the middle of winter right now. The contrast is stark.”
My criticism of the nation’s infrastructure, however, seemed to set him at ease a little because he proceeded to complain openly.
“The diabolical heat, and these hotels without air conditioning . . . ,” he grumbled.
I smiled. An unexpected chink in his armor had opened before me. He didn’t know my real identity, so I played upon my supposed foreignness.
“Almost everything’s rather dreadful in this country. The infrastructure, the facilities, amenities . . .”
“All of it, all of it,” he replied, vehement and conspiratorial. “The authorities are trying their best, I don’t doubt it, but even finding some good ice and a decent whiskey for a drink on the rocks is a chore.”
I felt a little disloyal. My country had just suffered a cruel war, and his was rich, with grain and meat coming out of its ears. What did you expect, Dodero? To find yourself in New York, or Monte Carlo, or paradise? I contained myself as an idea suddenly took shape in my mind. If Ramiro was intending to take Philippa to the Stella pool, perhaps I could try another angle.
“Still, if you’re not too busy, there are some places in and around Madrid that make the heat rather more bearable.”
“Not to worry, Livia, I don’t think—”
“Have you had the chance to go to Villa Romana, for example? There’s a fantastic swimming pool. Beautiful gardens, plenty of cool shade and comfortable deck chairs, an elegant atmosphere, excellent bar service and . . . and very lovely girls,” I said with a burst of laughter as singsongy as it was hypocritical.
“Sounds tempting,” he said. And he didn’t sound insincere.
I punched the air, as if my team had scored a goal. I pressed on.
“Why don’t you get out of Madrid for a day and relax? Forget about the heat. It’ll seem like a different universe.”
I emphasized my words with a lilting tone, exaggerating everything. In truth, I’d only been there once, with Diego Tovar, and that had been at night—the night Ramiro had reappeared among the strains of tango.
“Then when you’re back at your hotel, in the evening . . .”
The shipowner bellowed with laughter, regaining his old optimism.
“You’ve convinced me, dear. What did you say the place was called? Villa Romana? I’d planned to drop by . . . that is, drop in to see how a delicate matter I’m dealing with is progressing, but I doubt I’m going to be able to resolve anything today, so I may as well postpone it. In fact, I think I’ll head to this paradise you mention right away before the heat gets the best of me.”
I left Casa Prudencio with my spirits high and rushed up the stairs to the guesthouse. As things stood, all the men who could hinder my plans were going to stay out of the way. It was time to worry about myself.
When I arrived in the kitchen to say goodbye to the landlady, she was hanging laundry, half her body leaning through the window into the well of the building. She turned when she heard my voice. She had an enormous pair of underpants in her hand and a couple of wooden pegs between her teeth. When she saw me, astonishment painted itself across her weathered face. I’d put on one of my plainest suits, done my makeup impeccably, and gathered my hair into a strict bun with a simple headpiece at the back. After looking me up and down in disbelief, she noticed my suitcase and frowned.
“I’m off.”
I left another of my hundred-peseta notes on the table.
“I don’t think I have enough change,” she said, depositing the underpants on a stool and feeling her apron pockets.
“There’s no need, it’s fine.”
I left her uninclined to go back to the clothesline, scratching her head, wondering once more what on earth a woman like me was doing in her miserable guesthouse.
The taxi driver held two fingers to his cap when I gave him instructions.
“Wait!”
He’d just started driving when I made him jam on the breaks.
“I’ll just be a moment,” I said, darting out of the car.
I’d noticed the little optician’s next door to Casa Prudencio. I went into the narrow shop and examined the glasses on display.
“Those ones, please.”
The optician in a white coat sounded surprised.
“They’re for gentlemen, señorita.”
“I want them for my fiancé. May I see them, please?”
He shrugged and took them out. I searched for a mirror with them in my hand and found one hanging on the wall. I tried them on. The frames were black, square, and large. The lenses were dirty, covered in fingerprints and dust. Who knows how long they’d been there?
“I think they’re two-diopter lenses. He would have to come himself to be tested. He could come—”
I didn’t let him finish.
“They’re perfect as they are. I’ll take them, thank you.”
Back in the car, the driver had lit a stinking hand-rolled cigarette. The stench was infernal inside the old gasogene taxi.
“Excuse me, my friend,” I said with my new spectacles in my hand. “Would you be able to find a slightly sleeker car than this one? It’ll be a short journey. I’ll pay whatever’s necessary.”
He looked at me in the mirror. His eyebrows were thick, and his greasy skin was covered in blackheads.
“My brother-in-law, maybe . . . How much are you prepared to shell out?”
I shot the magical figure at him. A hundred pesetas, as usual. He scratched his unshaven chin, thinking.
“A hundred for him and another hundred for yours truly?”
“If you don’t make me wait, deal.”
He put his foot down on the gas. We found the brother-in-law nearby, at the Ministry of Agriculture’s garage. I stayed in the taxi, cleaning the scabby lenses with a handkerchief while he got out. They exchanged a few sentences I couldn’t hear, punctuated with a great deal of gesticulation.
“Good to go, love,” he said afterward through the lowered window. “But the car has to be back at three o’clock sharp.”
56
The driver got out to open the door for me when we reached number 5 of the narrow Calle de la Cruz, a stone’s throw from the plaza of Puerta del Sol, in the heart of the city. Permitting me to be driven in that government-owned Hispano-Suiza was certainly a risk for the driver’s brother-in-law. But the undersecretary had a lunch planned at the ministry itself and wouldn’t need it until later, and with my tip I was sure his subordinate would be able to plug one or two holes in his meager finances.
As soon as I got out, I put on my new glasses and looked up at the sign on the exterior wall. The blurred inscription read CEJALVO. JEWELRY. SILVERWARE. HERALDRY. MEDAL SPECIALISTS. I swallowed. “Let’s do this,” I whispered. My high heels clicked loudly on the floor. I was the only customer in the shop.
Three pairs of men’s eyes turned toward me. One of the men, the eldest and highest ranking, came out from behind the counter to welcome me. They’d seen my splendid automobile through the shopwindow, no doubt. They didn’t know who I was, but based on the car, I had to be someone important.
“Allow me to introduce myself. I’m in charge of protocol at the Embassy of the Argentine Republic in Spain,” I announced in a serious tone. “I’d like to see the manager. It’s an urgent matter.”
He looked at me for a few seconds, as if processing my words. My accent had been perfect. I must’ve sounded like a true Argentine, because the assistant nodded in an almost military fashion and scurried to the back of the shop. He knocked on the door, went in when he was given permission, and quickly returned.
“Señor Cejalvo will see you right away, señora.”
The office was neither large nor luxurious, and the man who was manager and owner of the business welcomed me courteously, looking a little stunned, while I adopted the demeanor of an efficient professional, my back straight, my hair gathered in a headpiece at my nape, and wearing my formal glasses. I neither cleared my throat nor hesitated. I acted as if I was used to these situations—confident, convincing.
“Our ambassador Dr. Pedro Radío is accompanying the first lady on her tour of Spain. In the interim, I’m responsible for dealing with any eventualities that arise at the embassy. I’d like you to know, however, that I speak on his behalf and that he shall be kept informed at all times.”
In another environment, one wouldn’t have needed to know much about how a diplomatic mission operates to have questioned my intentions. But in that Spain, isolated from the world and in a fever because of Eva Perón’s visit, the Argentine authorities were seen as beneficent angels sent from heaven, indulged and protected by the regime. Not to be questioned or challenged.
“We have received news from the Ministry of Governance’s Directorate-General for Security,” I went on, improvising by citing Ignacio’s organization, “that a supposed Argentine citizen has been visiting this establishment, attempting to obtain a replica of the Grand Cross of Isabella the Catholic that the Generalísimo awarded to Doña Eva.”
I continued to imitate the accent I’d heard so many times over recent days.
“As representatives of the Argentine Republic, we’re obliged to officially inform you that Don Alberto Dodero, who is in fact Uruguayan-born, has no authority whatsoever to take formal measures concerning official gifts received by our first lady. Neither can he request duplicates, reproductions, or copies whose ultimate purpose we do not know. Least of all,” I stressed to touch on a sore spot, “of an object the Generalísimo Don Francisco Franco himself gave to her.”
I was surprised at my own nerve, though what I’d said wasn’t a complete lie. In truth, the shipowner didn’t have any official public role. He was just a well-known businessman whose organizational and financial contributions did not give him the right to meddle in diplomatic matters. I continued to speak, maintaining my same tone and posture. The jeweler listened intently, the tips of his ten fingers planted on the desk.
“We therefore ask you, señor, to stop the production of the new Grand Cross in your workshops, with immediate effect.”
Cejalvo nodded slowly, understanding.
“To avoid any undesirable tensions, and given that Señor Dodero is a gentleman of a certain age and close to those who hope to fête Doña Eva, we advise you not to give him a flat refusal.”
The jeweler raised his eyebrows.
“Fob him off,” I suggested. “Stop the work he commissioned, but when he presses you for it, make excuses. Delays, difficult circumstances, unforeseen events . . . He’ll stop bothering you soon and will have no choice but to leave Madrid. We know that he intends to follow Señora Perón first to Barcelona and then to Rome, where—as you may be aware—the Holy Father will receive her at the Vatican.”
He nodded again, more emphatically this time. Pius XII was to receive Doña María Eva, and all of Spain knew it. How could the owner of this elite business not have heard?
He accompanied me all the way to the front door. My parked car had blocked a horse-drawn cart and another couple of automobiles from passing, but no one dared protest. Who would dare confront the driver of an official vehicle in that high-handed Spain? From the shop’s entrance, he watched the chauffeur deferentially help me into the back seat.
Despite its success, my fraudulent performance left a sour taste in my mouth. It didn’t sit well with me to cheat an honest business owner or to put a stop to the plans that meant so much to Dodero. But the situation called for it, necessary evils in the pursuit of my objective: ridding myself of Ramiro.
“To the Hotel Buen Retiro, please” was my next instruction for the ministry driver. “Once we arrive, take out my luggage and accompany me inside. As soon as you’ve left it at reception, you can go.”
On the way, I took off the simple dark headpiece and put on an eye-catching velvet turban that I pulled from my handbag. I replaced the spectacles with my sunglasses.
The lobby of the former Hotel Gaylord’s was almost empty at lunchtime. From the dining hall at the back, however, came the echo of conversations, cutlery, and dishes. There was just one receptionist behind the desk, a hollow-chested young man.
The procedure proved to be extremely simple. Well-married Spanish women weren’t allowed to open bank accounts, obtain their own passports, or perform any kind of formality without their husband’s permission. Working outside the home was considered improper, and checking into a hotel alone, an unacceptable audacity. But with my British passport, fake chauffeur, big sunglasses, and turban, I was a bona fide foreigner. And foreigners like me had carte blanche.
“My husband airplane arrive tomorrow,” I said in broken Spanish as I collected the key.
I swallowed my sadness as I went into the elevator with a porter carrying my luggage. The very same contraption had taken me up to meet Marcus years before, on the weekend that would mark the beginning of our short and ill-fated story as a couple. This time, however, I was not heading to a suite with a balcony; neither was there an enamored man waiting for me. Now, passing myself off as an extravagant outsider, I ascended for reasons that were infinitely less pleasant.
